step into your skin (i'd rather jump in your bones)
by swishandflickwit
Summary: Anne finds her first gray hair. Gilbert reminds her she's young yet.


**AN: In celebration of AWAE getting renewed (like there was any doubt IT'S TOO BEAUTIFUL) I wrote this future fic, for may the series live so long that we see a whole lifetime pass us by!**

 **I haven't reached the part in the books where they marry so if there are any similarities then that's a happy coincidence lol.**

 **Thank you to the effervescent _Mick_ (tiredsosleeping on tumblr) for beta reading this piece and assuaging any fear I might have for posting this! You are the best cheerleader and I'm lucky to have met you through this fandom!**

 ** _WARNING: Smut ahead! They are aged up and married with kids but if that is still NOT your cup of tea then please turn back now._**

* * *

Gilbert was just about ready to rest his weary bones and retire to his bed after successfully wrangling each and every one of his children onto their own.

It had been a long day in his practice (not that he would ever complain, he _loved_ his job) and an even longer night, for these were the offsprings of the Cuthbert-Blythes and naturally, they each had a jolly adventure (more like, gotten into trouble) that day, no doubt spearheaded by their own mother, and were eager to recount those tales to their father.

(A tendency he too loved, given the way it lit his heart)

Dinner times were filled with chatter that bled well into the evening, even as he changed the little ones' clothes and tucked them underneath their blankets. Most children asked for stories to soothe them into slumber. He and Anne, on the other hand, were in a rather unique circumstance in that his children had the exceptional talent of often lulling _themselves_ to sleep, kindling their imaginations so that it carried on in their dreams.

And if they weren't talking, you could be certain one of the older ones were _reading_ , beneath the feeble candlelight no less. He could blow them out, of course, but there was still such a thing as moonshine and light was light. Being a doctor meant nothing beneath this roof. His admonishment that such antics would be detrimental to their eye sights fell on deaf ears. His own chafed at hearing excuse after excuse every night, _"Just one more chapter, father!"_ or _"Please don't make me sleep without knowing what becomes of them!"_ then of course, _"I can't possibly sleep after that!"_ and, his personal favorite, _"How can I possibly sleep, knowing they are in such a predicament? It's simple, I can't!"_

Yes, there was never a dull moment in the Cuthbert-Blythe household and though it was the hour of rest, bedtimes were no exception. They were challenging and infuriating and humorous and _delightful_ , in ways that he couldn't bear to part from nor would he ever endeavor to change, exhausting as they may be.

So you could imagine how he was very much looking forward to snuggling into the downy covers of his extravagant four-poster, nestled safely within the cradle of his wife's loving arms, only to be flabbergasted by the sight that greeted him upon entering their chambers.

Anne was on the bed.

It wasn't an uncommon occurrence, of course. It was, after all, _their_ bed. What befuddled him was the _state_ in which Anne was on the bed—on her stomach, head burrowed deeply into the pillow on the side she insistently claimed was her own (no matter that they were entangled without fail in the mornings) and a downtrodden and dejected air about her.

With an inquisitive shake of his head, he sat by her legs, rubbed at her calves and cooed, "What ever is the matter, dearest?"

Anne flailed her feet in what he could only assume was agitation while rubbing her head against her pillow with a vigour that would have worried him if he didn't know better that what little friction she generated wouldn't cause her head to catch fire.

"Anne?"

She turned wide, bleary, woebegotten eyes to him and shrieked, "It is too grim. I cannot speak of it!"

"Not even to your husband and very best friend in the world?" he coaxed.

"First of all, _Diana_ is my best friend, not you—"

Gilbert gasped and put a hand to his chest in mock outrage. Anne ignored this fit of childish display in favor of sticking her tongue out to him.

"—and second of all, yes, I can't say it. Not even to you."

And then she swiveled back onto her pillow where she could muffle her scream. Gilbert quelled a chuckle and glided a comforting hand to her back before getting up to change for bed, knowing that at times like these it was better to wait for her to reveal herself. Anne would divulge when she was good and ready.

He was removing his trousers when he noticed the looking glass had been covered by a cloth and, baffled as he was by this appearance, he simply had to ask, "Why is the mirror _covered?_ "

She groaned. "If I tell you, you must promise never to look at me, _ever again!_ "

Now he simply had to laugh.

"How could I possibly agree to a silly thing like that? No," he pronounced with a confidence he was sure would endear him to her, "not when my wife is so beautiful."

This only made Anne cry.

At the sound of her sobs, he sobered from his humor and took a seat next to her, closer this time. Her hair was a loose, rubicund curtain down her back and with gentle hands, he gathered them over one shoulder so that he might see her better.

"Won't you tell me, sweet Anne? What are husbands for, if not someone to divy your encumbrances with?"

"If I tell you," she began with a watery voice and a hiccup as she peeked at him once more, "you must promise not to laugh."

"Of course," he said, his face straight though he knew in his innermost musings, this may not be a vow he can keep.

Anne sat up, legs a criss-cross, shoulders back and frown firmly in place, looking for all the world as if she had done an unforgivable deed and was resigned to the cruel punishment that was consequence to it.

"Well?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Well _what?_ "

"Don't toy with me Gilbert!"

He loved his wife. In fact, he never knew he had so much love to give till he met Anne and had children with her. But every once in a while such a situation would arise when he just—he did not _understand_ her!

"Woman," he sighed, all exasperation and fondness in his breath. _"What are you talking about?"_

She shot him a vicious glare. "You really can't—"

" _Anne."_

"MY HAIR!"

He scrutinized her head and found nothing amiss. It was as lively and lustrous as ever. He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head in observation, eyes narrowed as he wondered _what_ —

"Right _there_ ," Anne insisted, pointing at some infinitesimal alterity that for the life of him, he could not discern.

"It's w—" she took a deep breath, lips trembling as she struggled to admit that which tormented her. "There's a _whi_ —"

" _White hair?"_

Only Anne would find the _one_ silver strand in the sea of her russet locks. The discovery had merely been made plain to him because she pointed it out. He was certain that had it been otherwise, he would not have noticed at all.

"Oh Anne," he murmured, striving to swallow the amusement that threatened to tip from his lips. "Marilla's always telling me how vain you were as a child. I just never quite believed her till now."

"Easy for you to say," she snarled. " _You've_ managed to retain that gossamer, ebony head of yours. How it glistens just as brightly as it did when we were school children!"

She reached out and touched it. Innocent as it was, he was forced to repress a purr.

Perhaps the night was young yet after all.

A drop of heat sizzled down the length of his spine as she ran cool fingers smoothly across his scalp. He leaned into her palm.

Then almost fell back when she withdrew, and would have fallen onto the covers too, had he not been quick enough to catch himself with a steady hand.

Anne sighed, oblivious to her husband's mishap.

"I have unwillingly crossed a line from which I can never turn back." She covered her face with her hands as she wailed, "I have become old, Gilbert."

She threw herself onto the sheets.

"Irrelevant—"

"Hardly."

"Senile—"

"Rather strong word—"

"Ancient—"

"An exaggeration."

"Superannuated—"

"Ugh. Now you're just showing off."

"And just plain _old!_ "

Gilbert lowered onto the bed. He propped himself on an elbow as he turned on his side, head resting on his hand as he gazed down at her, silver eyes swimming in amusement.

"You do realize I'm older than you, right?"

"Maybe in years," she shot back, nose turned up snootily. "Certainly not in maturity."

"Just yesterday you were complaining about how you didn't want to eat your vegetables because they were, and I quote, 'so unromantical a victual that it would uninspire even the most spirited goat, what more an invigorated soul as myself?'"

Anne felt her cheeks coloring even as she biffed him on the shoulder.

"It's not as if it's a lie!"

"It's _vegetables,_ " he said. "It doesn't _need_ to be romantical, it just needs to be _nourishing_."

"Says _you_."

Honestly, it was like he wasn't a medical health care professional!

He rolled his eyes. "It's not _just_ me who says it."

" _You're_ the only one who ever says it to me."

" _I'm_ not the point of this conversation though, am I?"

She groaned. "I had forgotten, and now you reminded me. See? I'm all ready losing blocks of memory!"

"Anne," he huffed. "If it bothers you so much, why not just pull it out?"

"And have two more grow in its place?" she was aghast he would stoop to suggest such a notion.

"That has no scientific basis whatsoever—" he muttered under his breath.

She paid that no mind.

"No, there is nothing for me to do but accept it."

Gilbert chuckled.

"You are not old, Anne Shirley. Well, perhaps in number sure," he conceded for she looked about ready to protest again. "But in heart?" he shook his head, his voice admiring as he avowed, "never. In fact—"

A gleam that very much resembled mischief lit his eyes and a wicked grin stole across his lips. She knew that combination.

And it was deadly.

"Gilbert Cuthbert-Blythe," she warned in acerbic intonations. "Don't you _dare_ —"

But it was too late.

He was upon her as he launched an assault.

A _tickle_ attack.

After 15 years of marriage, Gilbert had the rather unfortunate (if you were to ask Anne) advantage of knowing—with a precision that bordered on ridiculous (again, Anne's words)—her weakest spots.

"Why Mrs. Cuthbert-Blythe," panted Gilbert, for while he left no domain untouched, Anne fought with as good as she got. "Your laugh is awful wild for an aged woman."

She shrieked as Gilbert poked at her side.

"Say 'mercy' Anne."

" _Never!"_

Anne managed to wrangle herself from his hold till she was the one straddling him, her hands pinning his to either sides of his head.

"Now it is you who must say mercy, Mr. Cuthbert-Blythe."

Anne was giggling as she said it, but Gilbert's thoughts had drifted and he found his intent had very much changed. Laugh though he had—harder than he imagined he would for the genesis of this occurrence had been simple and innocent by design, he just wanted to see her smile, that incandescent breadth of light that never failed to illuminate even the darkest crevices of his mind—he couldn't get the sensation of her fingers running through the silky strands of his hair from ghosting through his locks. Nor could he temper the excitement that incited in him as his fingers wandered the swooping slopes and ascending valleys of her skin when he tickled her.

He imagined his hands and her hands and all the other places on each other's body they might flit to. Then hands turned to mouths and he wondered where _his_ might roam about.

One thing was certain, whatever weariness he possessed earlier had gone, for indeed, the night was early still. That drop of heat had surged to a pool, flowing through his veins and making his skin tingle with delicious desire as he recalled how she writhed beneath him during their playful affair and oh, how he felt himself stir as he envisioned what it would take to make her writhe for an entirely different reason.

Anne was bowed over him, her hair a satiny valance encompassing his head. It gave off the impression that they were alone in the world, and so every point in which they were in contact felt magnified in its intimacy—every brush of exposed skin, every scorching _look_.

His throat felt dry, his eyes hooded in his enchantment of her. His breathing had gone shallow, as if he couldn't take in enough air. Anne sensed the shift in his aura, her own breathing growing increasingly unsteady. With a circumspection that bordered agonizing, she lowered herself onto her elbows, her bottom wriggling down the length of his torso till she settled atop his thighs. He moaned, and it was Anne's turn to spare him a fiendish smirk.

"Mercy, Queen Anne," he whispered, lifting his head to give chase to those bounteous and tempting, tempting lips. She swerved though, just out of reach and their noses brushed instead. He stifled another moan. "I beg you."

"Yes?"

She kissed each cheek...

"Most gracious majesty—"

...the underside of his jaw…

"Go on?"

...the hollow of his throat...

"My magnificent monarch," he beseeched in desperate susurrations. "Mercy, _mercy_."

Her hair was an exquisite blanket over him as she laid butterfly kisses onto the hollow of his throat, popping the buttons of his shirt as she grew bolder.

"And what shall I receive in return for such clemency?" she murmured before sucking at the lobe of his ear. His shirt hung open and loose on either side of his torso, her fingers prowling over the exposed skin in strokes that managed to be both sensual and predatory. She ventured lower. He felt himself harden and still, he made no move to relieve himself.

Though she had long let go of his hands, he remained a supple, recumbent figure beneath her as she had her way with him. He was engulfed in her scent—all sunshine and ebullient Springtime and the apples in their orchard, she smelled like fresh grass and petrichor and warm, warm skin in the cold mornings of Avonlea when all he wanted was to melt into her, their bodies melded in unity so that it became impossible to discern where she ended and where he began. There was no him and her but only them as one in all aspects—mind, heart and soul.

She hummed and he felt it to his bones so that all of him tingled and throbbed. 15 years… 15 years and every _single_ time, it still felt like it was their first. How they could go from smoldering affection and easy companionship to a blazing passion that seared their very essence, he would never know, nor did he care to find out—so long as they never lost it.

"Please," he said in low, gravelly tones. "Let me show you how young you are still. How young you make _me_ feel."

He sat up then, fingers moving from their supine position on the bed to trail her shapely calves before settling onto her bare thighs beneath her chemise. He traced small, almost lazy circles on her skin and Anne squirmed, planting her knees on either side of him as he inched closer to where she wanted them most.

She bit her lip and Gilbert mused about how that simply wouldn't do. So he dipped the fingers of one hand into her hot, wet cavern and when her mouth opened he licked at her lower lip before ultimately capturing them in a sultry kiss.

Her hair was spilled like fire atop her milky shoulders. He wrapped the silken strands around his free fingers as he quickened his pace, Anne's wanton moans the fuel to fire his ardor. He gave a little pull to her hair, not strong enough to hurt, but more than a tad slight that it broke their connection and her neck arched, a drawn-out groan escaping her lips as she came.

Gilbert didn't give her a chance to recover, because in one smooth motion he had removed his bloomers and entered her.

"Oh!" she gasped.

He rested his hands on her hips, setting the pace. There had been a period when neither of them could move fast enough, ensnared as they were by their own lust. But as time passed, they found they enjoyed the build up, the unhurried ascension to that blissful release.

This instance, however, was _not_ one of those moments.

It felt as if they had been transported—returned to their youth and those days as newlyweds, when time was a blur because they wanted nothing else but to be encased in each other's heat.

In perfect synchronization, Gilbert drew her chemise over her head just as she wrenched his shirt from his shoulders. Being joined in the most intimate form hadn't felt enough, they needed to feel each other's skin, the throb of their heartbeats evanesce in singularity.

It was Anne's turn to bury her fingers in his raven locks, gasping her desire into his ear before peppering his neck with kisses. Gilbert's hands were fluttering about as if he couldn't decide where to touch her and so he touched her _everywhere_. The bed creaked as their tempo progressed, no finesse in their movements, only lascivious mania as they each chased that shining rapture.

He could feel her trembling. They both were. And when their eyes met, a dilated coalescence of cinereal and cerulean, he knew.

"Together?" he breathed.

"Always," she returned in kind.

Now _she_ jerked at his hair, gentle in a way but sharp in others, it sent a pinprick of pain through his body but it inexplicably fed the pleasure. The gushing pool of heat became an ocean till it was a tidal wave of nirvana that swept him from each strand to the very soles of his feet, the peak of his climax only that much better when he felt Anne rising to that glorious edge with him.

They fell onto their backs, eyes meeting in the golden aftermath of their ecstacy, locked in a bubble of intensity as they fought to catch their breath. And then—

They were laughing.

They were laughing and laughing, overcome by a giddiness that they knew not from whence it came but did not mind at all, for it had been so long since they had a bout of lovemaking that was—though no less all-consuming—so hurried as to be classified as sloppy and amateur.

But perhaps that was the beauty of it all.

"I don't think I'll ever grow old," he contemplated aloud, turning on his side so that he could face her, her lovely porcelain skin stained a glowing red from their amorous activities. How he loved to see her blush, to follow the rush of blood from her cheeks to the constellation of freckles on her chest. He kissed her there, and again on her neck, before settling on her lips, once… twice… innocent in spite of their state of undress. Anne crinkled her nose at such display of chastity and quested for his lips, satiated yet hungry for more, for _him_.

"I could be wrinkled and gray but still have the spring of youth to my step, because I have you. You're the very air I breathe, Anne."

She smiled, cupping his face in her hands as she realized, "And you are mine."

"Then breathe me in, my love," he whispered against the cupid's bow of her mouth.

"And stay forever young."

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 **AN: Come say hi to me on tumblr! ;)**


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